


the dog days are over

by Wildehack (tyleet)



Series: all your love and your longing [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 21:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20198533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyleet/pseuds/Wildehack
Summary: He reads the text first, and his heart stops.It says “I love you. sorry.”





	the dog days are over

**Author's Note:**

> backofthebookshelf asked me to fix the unhappy implication at the end of the first story, so I did!
> 
> The title is obvs thanks to Florence + the Machine :)

Martin's perfect life falls apart the day Tim's brother disappears. Unless it's the day after that, when Tim comes back from going to look for Danny--white and trembling and unable to speak, even to tell Martin what's wrong. Unless it's months after that, when Tim quits his job and gets obsessively into paranormal research and everyone including Tim's parents are convinced he's having a nervous breakdown, and when Martin tries to talk to Tim about it Tim breaks it off with him. 

It's not the first time they've broken up, or even the first time Tim's been the one to end things. They've been trying on different configurations since Martin was _ seventeen years old_. It took them a while to realize that a closed relationship didn't work for Tim at nineteen, and an open relationship didn't work for Martin at twenty-one, and just being friends didn't really work for either of them at twenty-four and twenty-five, when the two of them had been valiantly trying to date other people and still see each other at work every day and down at the pub at least once a week with their shared friends. They’d gotten back together that time in the accessibility restroom at the local.  
  
But this is the first time Martin’s broken up with Tim and been genuinely worried about _ Tim_. In the past Martin’s always--unfairly, he can admit that--assumed Tim would be fine. This is partially because he spent a number of years convinced he had deeper feelings for Tim than Tim did for him, so always thought he took their breakups harder.  
  
(He’d finally been disabused of that in the accessibility restroom at the local, where Tim had dragged him after Martin confessed to the group that he’d reactivated his okcupid profile and everyone toasted to that. It had been four months since Martin’s last relationship ended, and he and Tim had been getting--confusingly close again, and it just felt like the right thing to do before Martin made everything awkward and weird for everyone involved. Tim had touched his face and blurted out: “Don’t get back on the apps,” and Martin blinked at him, and Tim said desperately: “I know it’s been ages, I know I fucked it up, but--god, Martin, I--I miss you all the time,” and when Martin kissed him he made this relieved noise against Martin’s lips that Martin’s never forgotten, and never will.)  
  
Martin’s also known that every time they broke up he was leaving Tim with a good emotional support network. He has a good relationship with his family, and all their friends were Tim’s friends first. (The fight they’d had over Martin attempting to let Tim win all their mutual friends in the first breakup was legendary. It had ended with Tim punching the exterior wall of a Nando’s, and then Martin taking him to A&E and promising that he’d try not to be a martyr if Tim tried not to be _ aggressively stupid _ while Tim got the bones in his hand reset.) But Tim had managed to alienate all the rest of his friends, too, not taking anyone’s calls and ignoring his inbox. And before--well, before, Tim always had Danny.  
  
This time Tim moves out of their flat and Martin is _ worried sick _ about him. He badgers mutual friends into going over to Tim’s new place to check up on him, he tries to send the right number of texts to communicate that he’s respecting Tim’s boundaries but is here for him if he needs literally anything, even if it’s just a friendly ear or shoulder--because they’ve always been friends, haven’t they? This isn’t the thing that breaks them. It can’t be, because Martin’s been assuming for years now that he’d always have Tim in his life.  
  
But he can’t put that in a text, can he? Instead he just sends Tim stupid things like “hope you’re okay,” and “I still have your fancy hair gel. Do you want me to bring it by tomorrow? I can leave it in your mailbox if you want,” and “I can skip dinner at Sam’s if you don’t want me to go,” and tries to breathe through the one-word replies.  
  
Tim finally calls him at midnight on a Tuesday, drunk and crying, going on about how there are things in the world Martin can’t know about, how Martin better be careful about those things, how Martin wouldn’t believe him if he told him about them. “_Try me_,” Martin says, glaring at the spider in the corner of his kitchen, just because it’s the only other living thing in here with him. “I’m dead serious, just try trusting me!”  
  
So Tim tells him. About Danny, about the circus, about the clown with his face streaked with blood asking _ Shall I_. It doesn’t sound believable. It sounds like something a grieving man having a nervous breakdown might have dreamt up, imagined in order to cope with something terrible.  
  
But Martin has known Tim for a very long time by this point. He knows what Tim sounds like when he’s lying, or when he’s letting his imagination run away with him.  
  
“I believe you,” Martin whispers into the phone, and means it. Decides to mean it, really.  
  
Tim gulps in a shuddering breath, a rush of static over the line. “Do you?”  
  
“I do,” Martin tells him, closing his eyes. “I believe you.”  
  
Tim moves back in a week later, and when Martin has him back in their bed, about to fall asleep, he quietly tells Martin he’s got a new job at the Magnus Institute, as a researcher--he wants access to their library. What he’s really saying, though, is that he’s not planning to stop looking for the thing that killed Danny--that they aren’t going back to their normal life after this. Martin just wraps Tim more securely in his arms, and kisses his forehead.  
  
“You do what you need to do,” Martin tells the top of Tim’s head. He means it, but it still takes him a very long time to fall asleep.  
  
*  
  
Three years later, and Martin’s basically used to the idea that ghosts and other oogly-booglies are real. He listens to What the Ghost every week, he makes Tim watch Ghost Hunt UK with him even though Tim likes to point out everything they get wrong in a way that’s half-endearing, half-obnoxious. Martin gets promoted sideways a few times and ends up in copywriting, which he actually really likes, and Tim moves down to the archives from research. Tim doesn’t get...eaten by ghosts, but he is quieter and sadder than he was before Danny died. It’s normal. To be expected.  
  
Sure, Martin worries a bit when Tim brings home odd reports of his coworkers being stalked by supernatural things--Sasha apparently met Edward Scissorhands in a coffee shop, and his boss claims to have been trapped in his apartment for a day by a bunch of worms in a dress?--and Tim seems to be taking them mostly seriously. Tim’s new job also requires more legwork than research did--half the time when Martin texts to ask if he wants to meet for lunch, it’ll turn out that Tim’s interviewing witnesses in Croyden or doing case followup in Kensington.  
  
But Tim seems all right, which is all that Martin really cares about. 

The messages come as a total shock, then.  
  
Martin’s at work, having a normal day, when he checks his phone at his desk. It’s been on silent because he had a meeting right after lunch, and he forgot to turn it back on. There’s a voicemail from Tim, and a text. He reads the text first, and his heart stops.  
  
It says “I love you. sorry.”  
  
Tim doesn’t _ say _ I love you, not casually. He’s always serious about it, like he wants Martin to really know he means it, and--Martin fumbles to play the voicemail.  
  
He can just make out Tim saying his name over a rush of static and someone shouting in the background, and then there’s a genuinely horrifying scream, and everything cuts off.  


*

The emergency workers won’t let Martin through on account of how he’s not family, which is_ infuriating_. He’s reduced to pacing anxiously up and down the pavement outside the Institute, on the other side of the flashing lights and red tape, while horrifying things keep rushing into and out of the building–there’s a huge vacuum cleaner looking contraption, an enormous bag of medical waste, and people in bloody _ hazmat suits_, and all they can tell Martin is that there’s been some kind of bug-related incident, and that they can’t confirm who is or is not in their care, despite the text and the message that Martin can’t stop listening to. 

He waits for three hours out in front of the Institute, calling Tim’s phone over and over and just getting his voicemail, and then he overhears the police saying something about _ the body _ and he has an actual panic attack, hyperventilating on the curb. 

“Oh gosh, you’re Tim’s boyfriend, aren’t you,” someone says anxiously, and stoops down next to him. When Martin’s back in control of himself, except for the shivering, he sees that it’s Rosie, the receptionist. They’d had a fun chat at the Christmas party last year. She offers him a bottle of water, and tells him what she knows–there was maybe a fire? The fire alarm went off, at any rate, and everyone except the Archives staff got out. She actually left after emergency services showed up, and is only back now to see if she can grab her things. 

“They won’t let me in to see him,” Martin explains, his hands shaking around the bottle of water she’d handed him. “And he hasn’t answered his phone, and I-–don’t know what to do.” 

“You’re gonna come with me, love,” she says, her face hardening, and helps him up to his feet. He–doesn’t know how she does it, but it only takes Rosie namedropping her boss to get them past the police barrier. “There you are,” she says, satisfied. “The Archives are just–-” 

But Martin already knows where the Archives are, and is already taking the stairs down two at a time. It doesn’t look like there was a fire, but there are….god, heaps of dead maggots everywhere? And everything’s covered in fire-suppressant. 

He reaches the main office, and finds Tim’s friend Sasha sat at a desk, looking strangely off into space. “Where is he?” he blurts out, and she blinks at him. “Is, is he all right?” 

“Oh, your boyfriend?” she asks, like she’s just coming awake. “Your boyfriend, Tim? He’s in making a statement,” she says, and points at the closed office door. 

Martin doesn’t hesitate, shoving the door open without knocking. He barely notices the other man at the desk, a shock blanket draped over his shoulders, or the full-body flinch he gives when Martin bursts in, because sat in front of the desk is Tim, and he’s–-

–-launching himself into Martin’s arms, thank Christ. He feels solid enough, but there are bandages under Martin’s hands. He immediately gentles his grip.

“You’re hurt,” Martin accuses, and Tim laughs, but he sounds exhausted. 

“You should see the other guy,” Tim says into his ear, and Martin says “Shut_ up_,” then kisses the nearest part of Tim to hand–-actually Tim’s ear-–to soothe the blow. 

“I–-suppose this is your-–partner,” the other man in the office says, sounding strained. 

“Yeah,” Tim says softly, not letting go of Martin at all. “Boss, could you give us a minute?” 

There’s a moment where it sounds like the man wants to say no, but then he makes a disgruntled noise and says “Of course. When you’re ready, we’ll finish up,” and switches the tape recorder off before limping out of the office, the door swinging shut behind him. 

“_ Christ _, Tim,” Martin says, and he’s shaking again. “That fucking voicemail.” 

Tim strokes the back of Martin’s neck, like _ Martin _ is the one covered in bandages, like Martin is the one who sent him a–-a bloody goodbye text. “I know,” Tim says. “I know.” 

“I’m not doing that again,” Martin says emphatically, and Tim nods into his shoulder. “No, no, I mean it, I’m not waiting outside a _ police barricade _ for you again, while they bring people out in, in body bags, because I’m not your immediate family.” 

“Sorry,” Tim says, his hands tightening on the back of Martin’s neck like-–like he thinks Martin might be going somewhere, which is ridiculous. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Martin says furiously. “Marry me.” 

Tim chokes. 

“They are never keeping me from you again,” Martin repeats, and Tim lets out a small, hurt-sounding noise that resonates into Martin’s chest somehow. “So you’re gonna marry me, Tim. Okay?” 

“Um,” Tim says, sounding hoarse, “Okay.” 

They’re–-actually going to have a conversation about this later, but it’s going to come after the conversation about what the hell happened, and what Tim’s wounds are and what aftercare does he need, and Martin’s going to fail to convince Tim to quit his job and instead seriously consider applying for a job at the Institute himself, just to stop anything like this from happening again. But two weeks later, Martin is going to walk into a jewelry shop and walk out with a ring he can’t really afford, and Tim is going to let him slide it onto his finger, and they’re both going to cry and pretend they aren’t.   
  
Martin doesn’t cry in Tim’s boss’s office, but he does shift in Tim’s arms until he can kiss him, chaste and serious, and then it’s Tim’s turn to shake for a while. 

When they’ve managed to pull themselves together a bit, Martin takes Tim out of the Magnus Institute, not before yelling at Tim’s boss who apparently wants to do _ more followup_, even though he looks pretty badly off himself. 

“You’re gonna get me fired,” Tim murmurs, tucked into Martin’s side, and Martin says “_Good_,” and glares at the police officers for good measure on his way out. 

Tim leans on Martin’s shoulder while Martin calls them a cab, wincing like whatever injuries he has are acting up. 

“What can I do,” Martin asks worriedly, putting a supporting arm around Tim’s waist. “Did they give you painkillers, or–-we could stop at a pharmacist’s-–?” 

“I just want to go home,” Tim says, swaying against him a little. “Can we do that?” 

“Yeah,” Martin says, and loves him so much he’s briefly frightened by it. “Of course.” 

He will take Tim home, and two weeks later he will put a ring on his finger, and he'll tell Tim they're going to be all right.   
  
"Promise?" Tim will answer, a little dark, and he'll kiss Martin before he can respond.   
  
Martin will skate his hand over Tim's new scars, and when he gets a chance he'll say _promise_ into Tim's mouth, and he'll try his best to believe it. 

**Author's Note:**

> .....you realize I _could_ still make this sad again, if I wanted.


End file.
